


Ichor

by trillingstar



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Bows & Arrows, Canon-Typical Violence, Community: oz_magi, Episode Related, Gen, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Nymphs - Freeform, Repaying Debt, Season/Series 02, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 19:25:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3220616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trillingstar/pseuds/trillingstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Naturally it's a bit of a delicate situation because technically I share a species with these asshats, and I'm supposed to be all about solidarity and all that jazz.  In truth, it's not something I enjoy talking about, but I suppose I must, because – just like in prison – when you owe a guy a favour, you have to come through for it when he collects.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Ichor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [numenora](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=numenora).



> Canon AU. A somewhat loose interpretation of the prompt. Apologies for trompling around in "proper" Mythology. Set post- _Escape from Oz_ , 2x08 or thereabouts.  
> 

I.

People these days, they can't think outside the box. Gods' playthings, really. Wish there was a better word to describe it, because they're not so bad, the little buggers. They'd probably be just fine on their own, but, they're so impulsive, which tends to lead to what is colloquially known as bad fuckin' luck.

Now listen, paganism isn't what it used to be, but lo, the old gods still exist. They're as curious and as inappropriate as ever, maybe even a bit more malicious than I recall. They've always exalted in the futility of humanity and all of that, but their interference over the past millennium has been sharper, now that no one's paying them any attention. Sure, there's some who've adapted well enough to an utterly different existence, one where the biggest argument of the day is who stole their favourite butt pillow or who's got more manna on their pancakes.

Nearly everyone's fallen into the majority, lazing around in a sort of limbo, occasionally rolling over to peek out at what their creations are up to; they're a benevolent crowd, zapping bursts of good fortune here and there. They have this whole structured reward thing going on, based off some arcane algorithm applied over an unspecified number of – well, time's a human constraint, but it's a good analogy. So hey, if you feel like you never received the recognition you deserve: don't worry! Somewhere, someplace, someone else is getting the credit. 

And then of course there's a remaining few who are perfectly happy sticking it to humans, just as they've been doing for centuries, and just as they'll continue for as long as this planet supports their endeavors, providing endless supplies of wildly impulsive two-legged test subjects. They're of a mind that if they can have a hand or two in all the gruesome, shitty things that happen to people, well chaps, it's been a good day.

Out of those few, there are only two of 'em who I shuffle past, eyes anywhere else, if, say, we're moseying down the same path at the same time, and I hope I don't gotta spell out why; I just had this floor waxed. 

People, certain that they're the genius behind corporal punishment, behind brick and mortar prisons. People, so confident in themselves to act the judge and jury of the fates. What I can say about jails – any kind of jail – is that they reek of desperation, layers upon layers of despair, fury, and rage. Three guesses who you'll always find with their fingers dipped into prisons, and the first two don't count. To be frank, if there aren't nubile nymphs and sweet red grapes and a furry horned beast blowing pipes, you can pretty much count me out of that scene. I'm a lover, not a fighter.

Naturally it's a bit of a delicate situation because technically I share a species with these asshats, and I'm supposed to be all about solidarity and all that jazz. But, look: it's not enough for these jokers to round people up and pull off their metaphorical wings, watch them bang around against the glass until they die. No, this is more of a free-for-all; first the swatter comes down, next a few squirts of poison, then let's pull off some limbs, oh, how about introducing paranoia to the mix. All that just to see who survives... all for pure entertainment value. Prison situations are like continuous cage matches, and who roots for the underdog? Nobody.

In truth, it's not something I enjoy talking about, but I suppose I must, because – just like in prison – when you owe a guy a favour, you have to come through for it when he collects.

***

We meet in a penthouse that overlooks Central Park. Several nymphs fade out of sight as the door closes behind me.

He gestures to a long, red couch. I perch on the edge of the cushion and clasp my hands over my kneecaps. Feels like I'm a kid waiting outside the principal's office. I sit up straight and school my expression into something that hopefully passes for nonchalance.

" _Bafometz_ ," I say, "Lovely to see you again."

He knows I'm lying, of course. He knows I'd rather not owe him diddly squat, but that's why we're here, isn't it, so I can stop owing him the favour. He's held this chit so long that I can't quite remember what he did for me. It was probably something to do with Thisbe's lament. 

Baf's current glamour looks like something out of a body-building magazine that mated with an octopus, which is odd; usually he goes for the slight, wiry wallflower. His black eyes are as beady as ever, though, only today there are just six of them.

I accept a small cup of ambrosia from some of his meaty hands. The stuff makes me daffy, but it's the best thing we've got for sealing deals, making or breaking pacts, et cetera. So in this case I can't wait to raise my glass and drink to whatever it is that I gotta do for this chump. 

For fuck's sake don't let me say that out loud. Baf's still a player. He's got pockets of followers all over the planet. He's what the minor gods aspire to be someday – narcissistic, smart, tough, and dangerous. He uses humans' near-feral instincts to their detriment, over and over again, and between you, me, and the rest of the world, he gets off on it pretty hard. 

We clink cups and we each take a swig, and then Baf's touching my face with a cool tentacle. I set the cup down on an end table, lean back against the couch, and brace for the overload.

There's no easy way to describe what happens next. A gross oversimplification is to call it a data transfer, of sorts, with two names and a location, but also pictures and words, smells and textures, pain, tears, emotions, all magnified a thousand-fold. Basically he's taking a dump directly into what passes as a brain stem, for me. I don't like wearing glamours very much and I definitely don't like wearing people.

My swirly bits spaz out for a while, trying to make sense of everything he's shown me, and when I float back into the penthouse, the nymphs are rolling around on a huge heart-shaped bed with Baf, cooing to his tentacles.

The heart-shaped bed is a jab. So are the nymphs. I bite back my anger. My whole being throbs, thrumming with pain.

"Fine," I croak. "And then we're square."

Bafometz grins at me with all of his teeth on display. Before I go, I throw back the rest of the ambrosia. Right now, I need to be stoned out of my ethereal gourd.

***

Contemporary romance as a notion is a 20th-century invention introduced by yours truly – hey, I needed something to keep humans' attention – and honestly I've always been surprised it took off so well. Yes, romance has always been around, sure, but as a straight-up fanciful friendship thing, period. Re-introducing romance alongside sex and sexual desire has made me gobs of money and I'm annoyed I didn't think of it earlier, but back in the day I guess I was busier handling neophytes and, I don't know, living in the moment. None of us really believed in the whole pass out of favour thing, but hey, that's dirty water under the bridge.

My real genius has been in tying the modern conceptualization of romance to love. Suddenly everyone wants romance with their love, or love with their friendship, and they'll do anything to convince themselves and everyone else that their romance, and their love, is the best. It's absolutely fascinating, and I'm well aware that I sound like a freshly-graduated sociology coed, ta. Doesn't mean I'm wrong.

The thing about love, though. The thing about love is that it's not for everyone. Most everyone out there ain't got a problem settling for an idea of it. Maybe what they really want is protection, or power, or companionship. They call it love. Then there's those who get a taste of love – real love, we're talking, not this bullshit idealized soul mate idiocy – and that territory's a little murky. There could be a legitimate spark, tumblers in a lock clicking against each other, compatible but not a perfect fit. The next step up's the real deal, all the way, but with so many obstacles to overcome, people usually give up. One or the other's been dinged too many times, they haven't reincarnated at the same level, what have you. It hurts a little to see, you know, and even I can't work too much with those parameters. 

Then you've got your Duke and Duchess of Windsor, your Antony and Cleopatra, your Stein and Toklas, your Abby and John Adams. People remember 'em because they see what love could be, and it's powerful stuff. But I don't even get my hopes up anymore for the consummate real thing, when the hairs on the back of my non-existent neck stand up and my arrows rattle and vibrate inside their quiver. Happens so rarely that it's shocking, scary even, when my bow glows hot and starts leading me someplace, burning against my fingers and palm. I haven't seen anything like that since Eurydice, and that numbskull Orpheus. Or Tristan and Iseult, although what a sob story that turned out to be. Rachel and Jacob, they knew what love was, really. Work. Love is work. Obviously I don't lead with that.

Back to the favour. This is what I saw: 

Two men, fighting. Broken bones and broken hearts, murdered by carelessness and by design. 

A man who had been taught that he could love no one, yet he sacrificed all his standing and all of his pride.

Another man so full of rage that it shook him out of his very self, made him reach deep down into his foundation, by now full of cracks so wide he knew he was on the verge of falling forever. 

I saw Baf's handiwork, and I knew why he'd chosen these two men for his games. If given free reign, I could see a destructive cycle playing out, repeatedly, one filled with blood and betrayal, thickly covering both men's souls.

I looked closer, and closer still; I looked into the hearts of all who surrounded them. I watched as they fought and scrapped, physically rejecting their connection, trying to make it disappear by struggling against it. For good reason, really. Their pieces were too jagged to ever fit against another's, no amount of polishing could help, here. And yet...

Among all of the hatred and revulsion lay something like tenderness, a hard glitter of hope. Excuse my purple prose. Unfortunately I can't control the creeping, melting sensation and ensuing sappiness when I'm face to face, so to speak, with the kind of burgeoning love that has the power to conquer everything. It's true: love conquers all. There I go again, 'scuse me. The threads binding these men together are frayed and split, but every time I swivel between them, it's a bucket to the noggin. I'm seein' birdies and stars. 

Listen, while Bafometz and his cohorts revel in obliterating the human spirit, that's just not my bag. I think my favourite thing about people is their resiliency. It makes my job a hell of a lot easier, anyway, when you can see first-hand the lengths that they'll go to in order to get what they want. Or what they think they want, but you know what I'm saying. There's this – this _thrum_ , inside, something primitive that upends the usual balance of logic and common sense, that says see ya later to being prudent, and that's never more important than when love's involved. Humans do all sorts of things in the name of religion, justice, vengeance. What trumps all of that? You got it, kid. Love.

***

The greatest love stories of all time have been crafted by me, natch. And I've got criteria. First, it's got to be an extraordinary tale, almost always with some kind of rocky start. Second, there's a set of particularly difficult obstacles to overcome, and third, it's gotta take place in the right place and time, because those are the ones that history remembers, always. I don't mind admitting to a little vanity; I'm divine, for fuck's sake. Everyone wishes to be remembered. Maybe I'm givin' you a little peek into my psyche, there. Pun intended.

Anyway, even though humankind as a whole wants these magnificent love stories to point at and preen over, great loves only wanna be remembered by one another. The worst thing they can think of is to be forgotten, for what they've done for love to be brushed aside as if they're worthless. Fascinating, like I said before. 

So, I have to be sure. Yeah, there's some things in what Bafometz conveyed to me that maybe could be construed as hallmarks of a groundbreaking kind of love, but, it could also just be part of Baf's game is to play me, too. He knows I'd never willingly put my name on something that I wouldn't back up a thousand percent.

II.

Chris wakes up in the middle of the night. He'd been dreaming about volcanoes, maybe, or some other kind of natural disaster that had rocked the ground underneath his feet. Orange lava poured from fissures in the earth, and he'd been rooted to the spot, unable to flee. Don't take a genius to figure that one out; he's alone in the pod, and Toby's in the infirmary.

Vern wants Toby dead, Toby wants Chris dead, Chris wants Vern dead: it's all the worst kind of circle jerk and Metzger had stood in the way of putting Chris' shitty last-minute plan into action. If Toby had been a different kind of man, together they could have taken on both Nazi fucks, and made it look like they'd killed each other. The look on Toby's face when Chris'd planted a wet one on Vern's cheek, though. Even if Chris could've sent an instant telepathic message, Toby wouldn't have seen past the explosion of his rage.

Rolling out of bed, Chris takes the few steps to the sink and turns the tap. Cupping his hands under the stream, he splashes cold water onto his face and bare chest, goosebumps breaking out across his still sleep-warm skin. 

He hasn't blown anything so badly since the first time he got down on his knees for some guy in the park. Even after the first time he'd snapped a college boy's neck, he'd still had the presence of mind to wrap up the kid's body and weigh it down. Far as he knows, that one's never been found.

Can't examine the thought that's flitting around his thick skull too close, because it's too late now. Toby hates his guts, and Chris deserves that, deserves any and all vitriol Toby's gonna send his way. Chris delivers on charm; Toby complements it with venom. 

Chris stretches, rolling his neck from side to side, and when he's moving his arm there's a sharp, sudden pain like he just got stung by a bee, right on his shoulder blade. He'd felt that same pain before, immediately before he met Vern in the gym. The discomfort faded when adrenaline curled around him as he'd faced the whole fucked-up situation, his mind working overtime. He'd played it so cool, talking Vern out of killing Toby, convincing him they could torture Beecher for years, think about it, it's not like any of 'em would be escaping Oz anytime soon. C'mon, Vern. They could have a real swell time, like the old days.

Chris would shank Vern a hundred times in front of a hundred hacks before he'd go back to having fun with Vern just like the old days.

Leaning against the upper bunk, Chris stares out into the dimly lit center of Em City. He should get back into bed, but it's hard to fall asleep without the sound of Toby's deep, steady breaths coming from above.

III.

Toby wakes up groggily; his mouth's dry, his eyelids feel gummy, and that spot between his shoulder blades itches something fierce. It's in the moment when he starts to sit up that he remembers his broken bones and the catheter wedged into the tip of his dick.

One of the machines next to his bed starts to beep, and a nurse materializes at Toby's bedside. She pokes a straw into his mouth and places a warm, wet cloth over his eyes, and Toby tries to murmur a thank-you but his throat closes up. After a few minutes, someone peels off the cloth, and Toby's grateful that it's Dr. Prestopnik who's shining a light into Toby's eyes and nose. Prestopnik is brusque and no-nonsense, but there's no way his eyes will fill up with pity the way Dr. Nathan's had when they'd wheeled Toby into the infirmary only the night before.

Prestopnik informs Toby that he's being transported to Benchley Memorial in a couple of hours, yammering on about a pile-up on the highway yesterday that'd kept Benchley busy all night. Through a haze of painkillers, Toby blinks at him, slowly figuring out that what Prestopnik's really saying is that an inmate from Oz who needs more care than the prison infirmary can give him ranks far below basically anyone else, even below someone with a paper cut. Toby's voice still doesn't seem to work, and after a couple of weirdly loud grunts, Prestopnik admonishes him not to move around and then injects something into Toby's IV.

For a while, Toby floats along on an opiate cloud, his head lolling back and forth. He wiggles his fingers, which doesn't hurt too bad; his nose itches but his wrists are cuffed to the bed. The people walking past are fuzzy around the edges, and the light streaming in from the windows is too bright, even through the protective grating. It's then that Toby sees him: Christopher-fucking-Keller, sauntering across the infirmary floor, headed to Dr. Nathan's office. Keller slows down as he approaches Toby, his gaze crawling all over Toby's prone body. As he's passing by, Keller throws Toby a wink and a grin, like they're sharing a secret, and Toby feels like he's going to throw up.

No, that's not right. He feels sick, frozen, pinned on a board like a dead butterfly, but he's not going to throw up. He's going to fuck Keller up. He's going to kill him, right after he kills Vern, Metzger, then all of Vern's fucking asshole Nazi fucks, and if there's anything left over inside himself at that point, Toby figures he'll kill that too. Fuck this fucking hellhole of a fucking prison and fuck that cunt Lima and every single one of those jurors for sending him here. Fucking McManus with his fucking smug bullshit and fuck all the fucking hacks who stood by and did nothing while Schillinger did whatever he wanted. 

The machine by his bedside starts beeping again, insistently, and Toby zones out watching the blurry neon trails following the nurse as she hurries over, telling Toby to breathe, breathe, _easy now, breathe_.

In the space between her torso and the metal bed bars, Toby catches glimpses of Keller perched on a bed not too far away from his own. Dr. Nathan speaks to him; Keller rotates his shoulder, winces, and Toby's glad. Keller hurts? Good. He should be in pain. Toby's going to punish him again and again and again, when he's healed. Or kill him, maybe. He can do it. Keller laughed while he broke Toby's arm. Keller held him down and Vern shouted, Metzger laughed and Keller – 

Keller could have killed him. Vern had wanted him to, but Keller hadn't, and why the fuck not.

The nurse leaves, so Toby guesses he's not going to die right away. Keller's moved, now, his back is to Toby, but in between blinks, he's standing up, and then sitting again; the painkillers warp everything. Toby holds on to the mental picture of Keller's face twisted in agony, but his expression keeps morphing into a hot, knowing smile. Toby doesn't fight it, indulging for a long moment in the pretense that it's all a dream.

IV.

Chris rubs at his shoulder all morning, until finally he complains to the new hack, who escorts him to the infirmary.

Dr. Nathan treats it like no big deal at first, half-listening as Chris describes the pain, all the while cutting her eyes at the bed in the corner where Toby's laid out, boneless and giggly, high as a fucking kite.

After Chris flexes a few times, wincing after each one, she pulls on a pair of gloves and sort of massages around until a line of concentration appears on her forehead. She tells him to stay still and then whips out a scalpel, chuckling when he gives her wild eyes. As far as Chris is concerned, there's ain't no such thing as a little cut, but he grits his teeth and lets her do her thing. Her hair smells like coconut, and her touch is delicate on his skin.

She asks him if he's been shanked recently and shit, don't ya think Chris'd remember something like that? But when she steps back and opens her fist, there's the glint of metal resting on her palm, bloodied but shining. They study it, and Dr. Nathan prods it with the blunt end of the scalpel. Chris would swear on all of his wives that the bit of metal glows and then melts away, though Dr. Nathan says _"damn it"_ , thinking that she's dropped it.

She calls for an orderly to come and sweep up, slaps a bandage on Chris' shoulder, and tells him that Toby's going to be fine, just fine.

That may be the case, but Chris knows he's never gonna be the same again.

V.

To borrow a delightful turn of phrase I heard recently – karma restored. My debt, paid in full.

I'm not certain that I've done either of them a favour, but their love, it's gonna grow, and it's got Cupid's stamp of approval, which means it's never, ever going to fade. They're in love, for real, for life.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Written for numenora for the Oz Magi holiday shankfest of 2014. [Originally posted on LJ.](http://oz-magi.livejournal.com/133896.html)
> 
> Request 1:  
> Pairing/Character(s): Chris/Toby  
> Keyword/Prompt Phrase: Enchanted love  
> Canon/AU/Either: AU  
> Special Requests: I would love a happy ending for Chris & Toby. Can have some darkness or wickedness, but not permanent death. Have fun!  
> Story/Art/Either: I prefer a story, but, would not kick some "art" out of bed for leaving crumbs. ;-)  
> 


End file.
